


The Epiphany

by Notatracer



Category: The Monkees, The Monkees (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-16
Updated: 2016-05-16
Packaged: 2018-06-08 19:17:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,274
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6870127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Notatracer/pseuds/Notatracer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mike's not rightly sure the exact moment that it happened, but he reckons it was probably the impossibly early morning that Micky streaked through the pad wearing nothing but a tablecloth fashioned into a poncho.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Mike had woken just before the sun had even attempted to rise and crept down to the kitchen with the vain hope of finding anything to eat aside from cereal.

By the time he had poked his spoon disinterestingly into his second bowl of slightly stale Puffa Puffa Rice, the smog had taken on a warm, pink haze over the ocean. Truth be told, he wasn't paying much attention to the color of the morning sky. Instead, he frowned as his spoon stabbed idly at the crack in his bowl, wondering if he was also going to be eating dry cereal for dinner. Again.

He sighed.

The frantic padding of bare feet barreling down the stairs shook him out of his thoughts. He looked up to see a blur of loud patterned cloth, fuzzy hair, and whole heck of a lot of skin whiz past him and right out the back door with a 'whoop!'

Mike shook his head like he had an earful of water, trying to jostle his early morning haze to process if he actually saw what he thought he just saw.

After a few moments of disbelief, he ambled out onto the patio just in time to see Micky race across the beach below, shucking his poncho almost as soon as his feet touched the sand. Mike's eyes followed the offensively patterned cloth as it flapped in the wind before landing. With it out of the way, there was nothing obstructing his view of Micky. Nothing.

_Oh merciful heavens._

Mike swallowed.

It couldn't have been more than a few seconds before Micky had practically belly flopped into the frigid Pacific Ocean, but it felt like an eternity. He watched the mop of curls, not much more than a brown dot from this distance, bob between the waves.

It didn't take long before Micky darted his way out of the water and had pulled his sandy poncho back over his head. Mike quickly returned to his seat at the table, hoping he hadn't been spotted.

Once Micky was inside the house, Mike realized he didn't know where to look. He glanced at Micky, but then quickly back at his bowl. Back to Micky. The way his wet hair had lost its curl. The morning stubble on his jaw. The way the poncho clung to his barely covered, damp thighs.

_Look at the wall, Michael. Anywhere but that dang fool._

He finally settled on the creepy taxidermy monkey, but he felt its lifeless eyes accusing him. Accusing him of what, exactly? Since when was it a crime to stand out on the patio?

Micky deposited himself in the opposite chair with a wet squish. Mike stared down at his cereal bowl. The fading pattern of roosters square dancing was starting to become mighty interesting.

However, even more interesting was the uncharacteristic, unnerving silence coming from the other side of the table. Paranoia won over shame and Mike chanced a peek up at Micky only to find his friend simply smiling at him in return.

Micky said something, he was sure of it, but none of the words seemed to translate.

"Huh?"

"I said, 'Are you going to eat that?'"

"Oh, uh ... no - no."

Micky snatched up the bowl.

"Aw, man, are we out of milk?"

"No. I don't - Yeah, no milk."

"Geez, Mike, you're sounding as dopey as Peter this morning."

"Sorry, I'm not all that awake yet. I guess."

Micky shrugged, grabbing Mike's glass of cherry Kool-Aid and dumping it into the cereal bowl.

Mike grimaced.

He wanted to hide in his bed. No, he wanted to tell the others he was sick _and_ contagious as he took his blankets and hid in the downstairs bedroom turned questionably painted practice room. Actually, he wanted to hide in a hole. Forever.

Whatever the case, he was stuck because he knew it was a very bad idea to stand. A pink blush crossed his cheeks as he drummed his fingers on the table. His eyes darted around the room, looking any place except Micky slurping up the soggy cereal.

The loud thump of the empty bowl landing on the table startled Mike enough to glance up again, but he just as quickly looked away from the tongue he found licking cherry stained lips. He interlaced his fingers on the table and let out a deep breath much louder than he'd intended.

Before he realized what was happening, Micky had made his way around the table and was standing too close behind him. The overwhelming smells of the ocean was making him lightheaded. Surely, it was the salt and the sand and not at all Micky's proximity. They'd been in close quarters more times than either of them could count and it had never affected him before. ..... hadn't it?

The warm breath of a quiet, amused voice tickled his ear.

Mike's eyes slipped closed.

"You're cute when you're flustered."

With a giggle, Micky bounced out of the room and into the shower.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

Mike had managed to find excuses to more-or-less avoid the guys for the rest of the day. When he returned home for the night, he found them listening to records in the living room. Rather, Micky and Peter were digging through a crate, debating which one they should listen to next, and Davy telling them to hurry up. Mike and Micky's eyes met briefly before Mike looked away declaring he was tired and was going to bed.

Nobody seemed to mind.

Once in his pajamas, Mike lay atop his blanket with the car pattern, staring into the darkness. How long had he shared a bedroom, alone, with Micky? Why had he never had any funny thoughts about him before today? It wasn't like he regularly noticed the peculiar way that Micky smelled. The way he whiffled in his sleep. The fact that their eyes would meet in the mirror every morning while Micky straightened his hair. The quiet gasps he'd sometimes hear late at night. Half remembered dreams his conscious mind would never let him fully recall.

_oh._

Now, all four of them shared a single room and he was never more aware of that fact than this moment. He rolled over onto his side, facing away from the door, knowing the other boys would start trickling in before long.

With a blush burning his ears, he fell asleep. When he awoke to the sounds of three pairs of feet entering the room, he wasn't sure if it was five minutes or five hours later. He kept his eyes closed, pretending to sleep, as the others got ready for bed. Their hushed voices mostly talking about trivial plans for tomorrow until Peter expressed concern that Mike might be feeling sick.

He tried not to frown when Davy replied, "Nah, man, don't mind him. He's just being Mike. What's the word? Aloof."

"Aloof. I think my mother used those in the bath."

"You're mental. Micky, do you mind taking this one? I can't handle any more tonight."

"Sure. Listen, Peter, Davy's just trying to say not to worry. Sometimes Mike doesn't feel like hanging out with us, and that's ok."

"Sooo ... Michael's not a sponge?"

"What? No. Go to sleep, Peter. Everything's fine."

With the room again in darkness and the guys settled in for the night, Mike drifted back off to sleep.

When he awoke, he was greeted with the usual breathing, snoring, snorting sounds that told him the others were asleep. He rolled over onto his back, keeping his eyes closed, as he listened to Micky's breathing from the next bed over. His own breathing soon fell into a matching rhythm.

As he slid his hand down his pajama pants, he tried his best to remember the leggy chick that Davy had been making out with after last week's gig.

She was tall. No, maybe not tall. She _seemed_ tall, as most people do, in Davy's presence. Was she blonde? Brunette? It didn't matter. All he could focus on was her mini skirt being this side of indecent.

Mike had been sitting on the edge of the pool, his legs dangling into the water. Davy was sitting in a lounge chair a few feet away, that chick almost towering over him. She had smirked over her shoulder at Mike before she bent over to kiss Davy, always Davy, giving Mike a clear view of her sheer white panties. He wasn't entirely sure she hadn't done that on purpose.

He didn't get much of a look before Micky, bare chested apart from strands of wooden beads dangling from his neck, obstructed his view. With a crooked smile, Micky had offered Mike some fruity drink or another that he'd procured from the open bar. In hindsight, he also wasn't entirely sure Micky hadn't blocked his upskirt view on purpose. Micky would.

The party scene fell away as Micky's sun kissed skin and unkempt curls demanded Mike's undivided attention. Mike was sitting on the edge of his bed, now in his Triumph t-shirt and jeans, looking up at Micky who hadn't changed in appearance from the party save for his smile growing a bit more mischievous.

Micky leaned over him, his hand cradling Mike's face, their open lips meeting. Mike let a quiet noise escape as he felt Micky's tongue touch his own while his real life hand was growing steadily damp. A little voice in the back of his mind nagged him that maybe he made that sound out loud and not just in his imagination. He couldn't pay much attention to his inner voice because fantasy Micky's hand had moved to his chest and was pushing him back onto the bed.

Micky's hand moved lower and lower until ....

Mike gasped.

He was suddenly aware that there was another hand on top of his own.

He blinked rapidly, trying desperately to adjust his eyes, as he could just make out the shape of Micky sitting beside him.

In the darkness and dream-like haze, he didn't fight or flee from the situation. Instead, he quietly allowed his awkward grip to be replaced by Micky's more firm hold.

He was already so close that it didn't take much for Micky to take him over the edge. He bit his lower lip, his fingers twisting into the blanket, as he tried to stifle the sounds that wanted to escape.

He thought he was good as his breathing evened out; his mouth went slack, eyes growing heavy. Until he caught sight of Micky licking his soiled fingers and a blissed out aftershock hit him with a quiet moan.

As Micky got off the bed, Mike whispered, "Wait." 

But, Micky only shushed him in reply.

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

When the morning sunshine woke Mike, the first thing he noticed was that his pajamas were very uncomfortably stuck to his skin. He slipped out of bed, trying to move as quietly as possible to not wake the others.

Micky was lying on his side, his blanket pulled up to his chin. Mike reached out to touch him, but quickly pulled his hand away before he made contact. He wasn't sure if last night actually happened. This was not the sort of thing you wanted to make a mistake about. Not even with a fella like Micky. He could get a punch in the mouth, or even worse, lose his friend.

Instead, he sighed through his nose and left the room to shower away his shame.

 

Later, as he nibbled on a toasted bread heel, he thought about heading to Sunset. Maybe he'd find some cute girls having lunch. Girls would be a good distraction. But, so what if he did? He'd probably strike out with any he mustered the courage to talk to. Instead, he decided to take his bread heel brunch down to the beach.

It was well after noon before Peter and Davy finally materialized. They soon joined in on a game of volleyball some of the neighbors were playing. Mike stayed on his beach towel, watching the others have fun. He resisted the urge to look around for Micky. Instead, he dug his feet further into the sand.

A bottle of Coke soon filled his entire field of vision. It was so close that it took him a second to realize what he was looking at.

"Got ya something!"

"I see that."

He took the bottle as he slid his sunglasses to the top of his head and quirked an eyebrow up at Micky. It definitely hadn't come out of their refrigerator.

"That cat who sets up a fruit stand by the john sometimes was back and I saw he was selling Cokes so I thought ... I don't know. It's hot out here."

"Thanks, babe."

Mike took a long drink before looking back up at Micky's fidgeting hands, realizing that he had only bought one bottle. He could picture Micky coming down here with the intention of buying himself some snacks from the vendors with money from his mom's care package. But, then he saw those cold, glass bottles of Coke calling to him from the fruit cart. They would be grossly over priced, of course, and it probably cost him his entire quarter leaving nothing left over for ice cream or whatever it was Micky had intended to buy. And, then, he gave it to Mike. _huh._

"Would - would you like a swig?"

"Gee, thanks. Yeah!"

Their fingers brushed longer than they should've as Micky took the bottle. Mike caught himself staring up at the way Micky's mouth wrapped around the lip of the bottle, the way his throat bobbed as he drank. Well, at least he wasn't staring at Micky's shorts. Yet.

With a pop, Micky took the bottle out of his mouth and handed it back down. He flashed one more winning smile before leaving to join the others in volleyball. As subtlety as he could manage, Mike ran his tongue along the wet lip of the bottle, hoping he could taste Micky. Then, he propped himself back on his elbows, slid his sunglasses down, and watched the volleyball game as he finished the Coke.

Watching Micky out here on the beach, jumping in those shorts, wasn't exactly helping Mike keep his mind off yesterday. At one point, while his team was cheering a victory, Micky's hand found its way onto the back of - Mindy? Mary? - the chick with the bobbed, black hair from down the street. Mike frowned as that hand snaked its way down her back, resting low on her hip.

Micky looked over at Mike and there was that smile again. He quickly stole a kiss on (Molly's?) ear before running up the beach and awkwardly depositing himself on Mike's towel, nearly sitting/falling on him in the process. Mike sat up, begrudgingly sliding over to give Micky a little more room. He moved his sunglasses to the top of his head again, but just as soon as he did, Micky plucked them out of his hair and put them on. Micky, then, twisted his smile into a pouty frown, clearly mocking Mike's own expression.

Mike stopped breathing as he found himself almost hypnotized by Micky's pout. He unconsciously licked his lips. It would be so easy to close the miniscule distance between them. He swallowed as he flicked his eyes up to meet Micky's gaze only to find Micky looking down. Mike's ears blushed crimson. Micky's eyes slowly rose. It was hard to read Micky's expression through the over-sized, violet tinted shades, but Mike would swear that they both were having the same thoughts race through their heads. Bad ideas. Very bad ideas.

He wasn't sure who moved first, but they definitely moved closer. Micky's breathing was so hard he was nearly panting and Mike felt like his heart was about to thump clear out of his chest as he could feel that breath ghosting across his own lips.

Mike suddenly ducked as the volleyball sailed too close to his head for his liking.

A voice called out, "Little help?"

Micky playfully shoved against Mike with his arm before getting up to retrieve the ball and rejoin the game.

Mike flopped back onto the towel, thought better of it, and rolled over onto his stomach.

He wished Micky would've at least not taken his sunglasses.

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

The rest of the day progressed without incident. Micky seemed to give no indication that anything had happened, was happening, or that he had any idea he was currently occupying Mike's every thought.

It wasn't until Mike was almost asleep when he felt the edge of his bed dip. He sighed into the darkness as he felt fingers carding through his hair, over and over, pushing his bangs off his face.

He reached up to the Micky shaped silhouette, pulling him down into a kiss. It wasn't as confident as it had been in his imagination. It was hesitant and toothpaste flavored, but it was like air for a drowning man. It was real. Wasn't it?

He couldn't question reality too much before Micky began aggressively nuzzling his neck. Mike wasn't even entirely sure what exactly was happening because he felt like his head had been stuffed with cotton and he couldn't really see, but it sure sounded like Micky was sniffing him. Then there was a tongue leaving a wet trail, teeth biting his ear. Micky hissed something, but Mike couldn't make sense of the words.

Micky sat up.

Mike grasped in the dark, catching the hem of Micky's shirt. He intended to pull him back down, but stopped when he felt fingers tugging at the waist of his pajama pants. He lifted slightly to help, but tightened his grip on Micky's shirt at the feeling of the night air on his newly exposed skin.

The panic that had started to rise was immediately squashed as Micky took him in his mouth. It took everything Mike had to not make a sound louder than a sigh. A thought crossed his mind, wondering if Micky had ever done this sort of thing before. He tried to push the thought aside. He really, _really_ did not want to know. With a flick of Micky's tongue, that and all other thoughts were obliterated from Mike's brain. He put his free hand over his mouth, just in case.

Micky was being as slow and quiet as possible, but the occasional obscene slurp would reach Mike's ears and make the heat already radiating though his body even more intense. He wished he could see more than the faintest of outlines, but at the same time maybe not. Maybe this wouldn't even be happening if it wasn't pitch black. Maybe Micky was thinking of someone else. Maybe all of this was an intense wet dream. Maybe ...

Peter sneezed.

Micky froze.

Reality came crashing back in.

Mike was half naked only a few feet away from two of his friends while his other friend was doing things with his mouth that were probably illegal in most states.

Mike and Micky didn't move. Didn't breathe.

After a few moments of silence, Mike pushed insistently at Micky's shoulder. The sound his mouth made as he lifted his head was far too similar to the one he had made with the bottle earlier. Instead of getting off the bed, Micky just sat up and rubbed Mike's stomach. He wanted to pull Micky's head back down, tangle his fingers in those curls, just let him finish. If not in here, then another room. _No. No. No._

Mike slid Micky's hand off of him and shoved him just forcefully enough to tell him to go away. Micky made a sound suspiciously like a whine, but went back to his own bed.

He could feel Micky's eyes staring at him in the darkness. It was then that he decided that he should take care of this problem the old fashioned way:

In the bathroom with a Penney's catalog.

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

When Mike made his way downstairs, he decided to temporarily take a detour from his mission by rifling around in the kitchen cabinets until he found the nearly empty bottle of Jack that had been left behind the last time they had a party. He winced as it burned his throat.

He finished off the bottle as he stared out the kitchen window, the moonlit sky illuminating the pink house next door, completely lost in his thoughts. He'd had thoughts about going back home plenty of times. Being a struggling musician barely scraping by is hard. At least the crippling loneliness of moving dirt poor to a new city only lasted until, by some miracle, he managed to band together with three other boys on a similar wave length. But, this ... this might be the first thing that made him wish he'd never left Texas. If he'd never left, he'd never know Micky existed. But, it was too late now. Damage done.

His whole body went stiff at the feeling of hands on his waist. So caught up in himself, he hadn't heard Micky creep downstairs.

The manic energy that always seemed to radiate off Micky combined with the whisky was making his head buzz. The way that Micky was slowly, deliberately rocking against him was causing him to bump up against the sink in a not entirely unpleasant way.

"C'mon, let's go in the other room."

Mike looked up at the ceiling, fighting the urge to even imagine what Micky had in mind. His fingers gripped the edge of the sink for a moment before he turned. Without missing a beat, Micky resumed his slow grind.

"Micky, I .... Listen, I can't think while you're doing that."

"Thinking's overrated."

Mike closed his eyes. He was tempted to let Micky keep doing what he was doing, but instead he took a deep breath.

"Cool it, Mick. Stop!"

That came out way more stern than he'd intended. When he opened his eyes, he found that Micky had not only stopped moving but had shut down. He was biting at his lip, staring at a spot somewhere just past Mike's legs. Micky's carefully crafted external persona had evaporated just like that. He looked ashamed and it ate Mike up inside.

He slid a finger under Micky's chin, tilting his face up.

"Why?"

Micky shrugged and tried to look down again. Mike leaned forward, kissing him on the cheek. He lingered, whispering as he spoke.

"Tell me why only in the dark, at least?"

"I just thought it'd be easier. You're a little skittish sometimes."

"It's not my plug ugly face?"

"I don't think your face is ugly. Plug or otherwise."

Mike smiled.

"Take a walk with me."

Micky nodded, following Mike out the back door.

When they reached the dark and deserted beach, Micky held onto Mike's hand. After they walked several feet away from the row of houses, Micky stopped. He held tight to Mike's hand, causing him to stop short and stumble.

Once Mike righted himself, he turned to see Micky frowning.

"I think we're far enough away. What did you bring me all the way out here to say?"

He pulled Micky by the hand, closing the small distance between them.

"I don't remember."

Without pausing to think about it, he kissed his best friend. Deep. The way he'd only ever imagined kissing anyone. The way he'd repressed and denied that he'd thought about doing since the day they met.

When they parted, breathless, Micky's smile returned.

Mike pushed his wind swept bangs away from his eyes as he admired the look Micky was giving him. It was hard to tell over the crashing waves, but he was almost certain Micky was humming.

Hand in hand, they walked back in the direction of the pad.

"I'll tell you, back home, my Uncle Cooter would beat me if I even so much as thought about you the way I do."

Micky wrinkled his nose.

"You have an Uncle Cooter?"

Mike stopped their walk.

"That's not the point. Don't tell no one."

"Ok."

"I mean it, Micky."

"I won't! I'm not even close to ready for anyone to know. But, I am kinda looking forward to the day you clobber Davy for calling you a poof."

Mike grunted. This wasn't a line of thinking he wanted to touch. It was in his head now, though, and he was sure to revisit it later. _Thanks for that, Micky._

"Don't take this the wrong way, but I - I need to take this slow. You dig?"

"Slow, yeah. Of course. We can slow it down. I've waited this long ...."

"You have?"

Micky suddenly blushed.

"I, um, I've kinda sometimes been jerking it into your dirty laundry since, well ... since we moved in together."

"That's - That's not ok, Mick."

"It's only cause it smells like you. You drive me crazy, the way you're always so close, touching me. I was too scared to tell you that I lo ..."

Micky looked down, breathing out heavily. Mike wrapped his arms around him, holding him close.

"Me too. Not the laundry part. But, yeah. Maybe we can see about splitting the bedrooms up again and go from there."

"Can we get the downstairs one this time?"

"Anything you want."

Micky looked up, unadulterated mischief in his every feature.

"Will you wear your cowboy hat when we ... you know?"

Mike let out an amused snort.

"Deal. I'll even let you borrow it sometimes."

Micky beamed.

As Mike gazed into Micky's eyes, alight with the possibilities, he sighed with content. They were embarking on an exhilarating, terrifying, and strange adventure.

He was sure neither of them would have it any other way.

 

 


End file.
